A Moldovan Haircut
After work I drove by one of those discount hair salons that advertise, “Walk-ins Welcome.” Well, I walked in. I was very fortunate. There was no one in front of me so the stylist said, “Come on back.” That should have been my first warning. She had a vague Eastern European or Near Asian accent that I could not place, Moldovan, Czech, Uzbecki. She asked, “Vat do you vant?”
These are the moments that separate the oldsters from the youngsters. My hair, what I have left, was a mess. It clearly needed a good mowing. I said, “Just clean it up. Off the collar and my ears. What’s left, I part on the right side.” If I was younger and still had more hair, I would have been more detailed in my instructions. These simple instructions have worked in the past. She responded, “Very good.”
At this point, I closed my eyes and relaxed back into my barber’s chair. Just as I relaxed and reflected on my day, I heard this whirring sound. It was not an electronic trimmer buzzing sound. It clearly was a whirring, like a grass trimmer. Miss Moldova pulled out this machine that the Bush Administration would probably not use to torture an Al Qaeda operative. It had these blades that moved in circular fashion that she then applied to my scalp. It simultaneously cut and pulled hair from the root. After she was done, I took a glance at the mirror. She apparently decided to attack the undergrowth first. What remained was a tuft of thick hair on the top of my head and very long strands that dangled around my ears. She then said something like, “You veel lighter?” I said, “Excuse me. I don’t understand.” “You much veel lighter with no hair.”
I am not that vain, but I was becoming increasingly concerned. My first thought was, “I hope she is done.” I said, “Yes, I feel lighter. You aren’t done are you?” She laughed and said, “No, no, no. we have just begunning.” At this point, I had no options but to let Miss Moldova continue.
She did some clipping with the scissors around my ears. I felt a tad better. I thought the worst was over. In a flash, she then pulled out the grass trimmer and went at it on the back on my neck. I cringed and acquiesced. What choice did I have? After some more plucking and trimming, she stopped and said, “You OK?” I said, “Yes.” “We almost done,” she said. I guess the “we” she was referring to was her and her circular three-bladed grass trimmer. There was a faint smell of burning oil.
Finally, she put her tools down after a few minutes and announced, “You finished.” I was mostly keeping my eyes closed during the procedure. I opened one eye and realized that she didn’t believe in parting hair. She trimmed so much, there wasn’t anything left to part!
She then announced, “You need to make gel. Not so much, just some for top of your head.” I agreed with her fearing that if I didn’t she would get out the smoking trimmer again. She offered to trim my eyebrows. I said, “Thank you, but I will do it when I get home.” Who knows what gas powered lawn care device she would employ to trim my eyebrows.
I got up out of the chair and thanked her. Her final comments to me were, “You have strong hair on your head vere it isn’t bald.” I guess that was a Moldovan compliment.
I paid my bill and left. When I got home, I did take a glance in the mirror. I was surprised that my skull is more mishapen than I expected. I have a Appalachian folded mountain ridge running the length of my head. I haven’t see it for nearly 45 years. My wife told me that I now look like one of the older men holding handwritten placards at a Teabagging Rally.
